


And There Will Be Flowers

by Phrenotobe



Category: Fire Emblem: Shin Ankoku Ryuu to Hikari no Ken | Fire Emblem: Shadow Dragon, Fire Emblem: Shin Monshou no Nazo | Fire Emblem: New Mystery of the Emblem
Genre: F/F, Family Bonding, maria and michalis appear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 13:33:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18032678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phrenotobe/pseuds/Phrenotobe
Summary: There’s a murmur, a quiet one, that hums through the crowd. It tickles the back of Palla’s neck, but she ignores it, allowing herself to be led. Minerva assumes the place to lead, one hand holding Palla’s, the other upon her hip. The band begins, and then they move.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Solrosfalt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solrosfalt/gifts).



The ballroom throngs with life and light. Blinding, beautiful. Uniforms of the Macedonian officers in black and red turn in step, a march made a dance, ending with a perfect turn.

Palla has her parade jacket on with the uniform skirt beneath it, the epaulette bright gold and distracting at the corner of her eye. She’s just barely high enough rank to attend, but she didn’t bring any plus one with her. Without a partner, she hangs on the wall. 

The Macedon royal family cause an attention-seeking quiet with their entry, silence descending on the room. Michalis, controlled in every movement in kingly white; Minerva, with the loose, swinging march of a career soldier, the hot, heavy cloak and fur of a frontier guardsman over one side of her body. Maria, smaller than her siblings but big for her age, grabbing on to the last three fingers of Minerva’s hand. 

The room dips to a knee to them, and Palla is no exception. But she keeps her chin lifted, looking directly at the siblings in the moments before Michalis gives the signal to rise. 

It’d be nice if Palla could share this with her sisters one day. But for now, she waits by the food table, uncompetitive as low-ranking nobles pick apart a tray of smoked meats and try to fill their dance cards with each other. They coo and cluster and squabble like pidgeons. Several gaze at Michalis with love in their eyes, but his eyes slide over them as he regards the room.

Palla leans her hip against the table, waiting her turn to spend time with Minerva. She has an impossibly small quiche in hand, and a half-filled glass of sparkling wine. She gives Minerva a fond smile as she comes up

To Palla, she’s a relaxing presence. Minerva brings herself over and picks up a piece of meat impaled on a stick, giving the lingering nobles a taste of her strong regard. They meet her eye for moments, frozen and then skittering away to give the princess some space. 

“Commander,” Palla murmurs.   
Minerva regards the food she’s selected, but holds it between two fingers, looking away to the dance floor. Michalis is leading Maria in a dance, and she’s laughing, putting her feet deliberately into the places where his boots have only just been. There’s a ring around their space that nobody dares step into. 

“Do you have a minute?” Minerva asks.   
Palla’s attention has been gathered for longer than that. She gives Minerva a soft, understanding smile.  
“My time is yours.” 

Minerva doesn’t relax. She adjusts her weight, left foot to right foot, and clears her throat.  
“May I see your dance card?” she asks.   
Palla nods, bringing the little wallet up from her hip where it hangs on the string. She holds it up like a license, only for Minerva to pluck it from her hands. 

Minerva pulls out a pencil stub from her pocket.  
“May I?”   
Palla likes the echo. She likes being asked. It’s a kindness given where a command could be put instead. She nods, glancing down at the page. 

Minerva writes block capitals, diagonally across the card instead of down the rows. The printed lines are overwritten, consumed by a letter each. M. Macedon places her bid, and offers it back to Palla. 

Palla considers it.   
Minerva wants her evening, and Palla folds the wallet over, letting it drop back at her side.   
“Yes, Commander.” she says simply, and offers her hand. 

Minerva moves through the crowd with ease. People move out of the way before she even touches them, and Palla is brought through on the wave.   
There’s a murmur, a quiet one, that hums through the crowd. It tickles the back of Palla’s neck, but she ignores it, allowing herself to be led. Minerva assumes the place to lead, one hand holding Palla’s, the other upon her hip. The band begins, and then they move. 

Palla is a little rusty, but Minerva isn’t a dancer. She moves with gravity, trying to stay in time and in step. The cool confidence of the battlefield no longer lifts her shoulders. 

Palla gently squeezes Minerva’s hand, to try and help. A flush travels upward into Minerva’s cheeks, and she blinks silently like a cat.   
“I can’t concentrate,” she admits.   
Palla nods, her expression blank and soothing. She taps a hand against the point of Minerva’s chin to lift it again, meeting her eyes. Minerva pulls herself together again, and Palla places her hand back into Minerva’s hand again. Another step, and Minerva squeezes Palla’s fingers gently in return.   
“How are you finding the party?” Palla asks, into the comfortable silence between them.  
“I find the company... very good,” Minerva replies. 

She’s smiling. It creases the corner of her eyes, makes the intensity of her gaze feel like warm sunlight, like finding yellow flowers. As the song continues, it stops being about the ballroom, about the people around them. Minerva is handsome, elegant in her uniform. Palla is the only one she sees.


	2. Chapter 2

“Minerva!” Maria calls.   
She gently grabs for Palla’s sleeve, dragging it out of Minerva’s grasp.   
“You owe me a dance!” she says, swaying gently to the song as she waits for attention.   
Minerva’s smile is wry, and fondness gleams in her eyes. She gives Palla a glance before taking Maria’s hand. 

“Would you wait for me on the balcony?” Minerva asks.   
“Yes, Commander,” Palla says, and steps away. 

She doesn’t go immediately. She allows herself to enjoy the sight of Minerva dipping a bow to her sister, who laughs and grabs her arm to pull it straight. Not as tall as Michalis, Minerva loses her gravitas with Maria to spin lazy circles across the floor. 

Palla wonders about the barracks, how and what they’re doing while she’s gone. Usually by this point they’re roaring songs and rolling out the moonshine from under the floor. The tepid clutching of wine by passive bystanders can’t hold a candle to the sights of a Macedonian soldier’s shindig, but the sounds, she admits, are nice here. 

She goes through the opened windows to the balcony, shivering at the chill. There’s somebody there already, enjoying the moonlight. She’s a tall, narrow woman of about the same rank as Palla. A cigar is held in her crooked fingers as she leans on the width of the bannister. It is marble and pale stone, polished to gleam. 

“Busy?” she asks, looking Palla up and down.   
She’s got the downward turn and bump of a regal Macedonian nose, but the freckles of somebody who isn’t too far removed from a farmer’s fork. 

“Terribly, I’m afraid,” Palla replies.   
“Suit yourself,” the soldier says, and goes back to contemplating the moon. 

Palla can appreciate the romance of it. She hops up to sit on the bannister top at the corner edge, fitting her back against the wall. The moonlight is bright, and the world outside so quiet that she can hear the cigar burning down. The soldier takes a pull, contemplates the tip, and turns her head.  
“Career or Temp?” she asks.   
“As long as I’m needed,” Palla replies. She folds her hands in her lap, comfortable. Being on a Pegasus leaves no room to be scared of heights. 

The soldier glances at Palla again before they leave, putting out the cigar on the marble. A dark smear on the white stone. It’ll be warmer inside than out, but Palla likes the quiet. 

\--

Palla is half-dozing when the doors open again. Minerva looks tired, but relief brightens her face when she sees her. Minerva reaches to her, helps her down even though she doesn’t need it, and her hands are warm from the room indoors. 

She’s always had such handsome hands, nice to hold and be held in. Minerva looks over her face, and unclips her cloak to put it over Palla’s shoulders.   
“Your hands are cold,” Minerva murmurs. She reaches to hold them again, smoothing over the back of Palla’s hands with her thumbs. 

Palla nods, but doesn’t admit it. It’s not Macedonian to say. Instead she leans into the grip, stepping forward.   
Minerva bumps her jaw against Palla’s forehead, adjusting the fit of the cloak on palla with one hand, welcoming her in with the other. The embrace is wordless but warm, still and quiet under the moon. 

Behind them, the dance continues, the roar of chatter, the life and the heat. Palla reaches up to Minerva’s cheek to turn it, and comes up on her toes to kiss Minerva’s tender mouth. 

Minerva allows it, taking Palla’s hand again. She looks down at it, considers it. Considers them. 

“Are you happy?” she asks.   
“Commander?” Palla replies.


End file.
